In the Blood

19 JUST BENEATH THE SKIN

Seattle, WA

March 22/March 23

DANTE WALKED ALONG THE sidewalk, listening to mortal thoughts, feeling drum tight. Neon from the strip clubs on both sides of the street flickered and buzzed—JIGGLES and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and LAP DANCES!—too bright, and he slid on his shades. The winking colors muted. He drew in a deep breath of air and smelled car exhaust, fried chicken, and brine from the bay.

Hunger pulsed through him, strong and insistent, but still under control, thanks to Von. He’d fucked up by waiting too long to feed, and he knew better, but his hunger for Heather had been stronger.

Hood up, shades on, he slipped past small clusters of people gathered in front of some of the clubs smoking and laughing, making deals—dope, sex, break-ins. Most didn’t pay him any attention, their thoughts focused elsewhere.

Dante listened. But all he picked up were horny thoughts, horny and lonely and desperate thoughts, a few worried—I’ll just say I was out with the guys, took in a ball game, had a few beers—and others challenging—I’m an adult, I’ll fucking do whatever I want. Some thoughts were all business, flat and bored. Hey, baby. Wanna date? Wanna blow job?

A few of the clubs were closing, and cars trickled steadily from parking lots. Dante stepped over one of the yellow-painted parking blocks and walked through the nearly empty lot for HOT XXX BUNS. Several cars remained parked near the employee exit at the side of the building.

Dante followed the noise of two fast-drumming hearts, their rhythms overlapping and twisting into one thundering sound. In the darkness pooled in front of the exit, courtesy of a burned-out bulb, a guy in a windbreaker struggled with a woman, his hand locked around her upper arm.

“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to jerk free. Fury edged her voice, but Dante heard fear underneath. She swung her purse.

“Goddammit!” The guy dodged, then grabbed her bag and wrenched it from her hand. He tossed it into the parking lot. It hit the concrete, spilling its contents across the pavement. “I spent a helluva lot of money on you! You could at least be nice.”

“I don’t—”

Dante moved. He ran across the parking lot, breezing past the woman’s purse, and stopped beside the grabby guy before the woman finished speaking.

“—owe you shit!”

The guy, potbellied but thick-muscled, scowled at Dante. “None of your business, asswipe. Get lost.”

“Yeah, y’know what? Fuck you.” Dante shoved the guy with one hand. Potbelly slammed into the building like he’d been fired from a cannon. He slid down to the pavement, expression dazed.

The woman blinked, not exactly sure what had happened, but when she noticed Potbelly was down, she ran over and kicked him in the thigh, then gathered up her purse and its contents. Whirling, she hurried back into the club. The steel door slammed shut behind her.

Potbelly groaned.

Dante leaned over him, twisted his fingers into the windbreaker’s collar, and yanked the guy to his feet. He dragged Potbelly around the club’s edge to the Dumpster-filled back lot. Hurled him against the building and pinned him there, hand to shoulder, thigh snugged between legs. Potbelly stared at him, mouth open, eyes dilated, and Dante realized his hood had fallen back.

“My God…”

Dante breathed in the mortal’s adrenaline-and-lust-spiced scent, listened to his jackhammering heart and thought of the blood pumping through his veins. Just beneath the skin. Promising pleasure. Promising relief. Hunger uncoiled.

He shoved Potbelly’s head to one side, before he could say another word, and tore into his warm, pulse-pounding throat with his fangs. Burrowed into his flesh.

And fed.